


Being A Brother Is Hard As Hell

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Brothers [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, dirk has significant mental issuses, it ends up okay I promise, my tumblr is knight-of-heart-and-art, poor dave is too young to have this shit happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2019-03-08 19:40:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13465176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Dirk's sixteen and doing something that is inadvisable for most teenagers to do; namely, removing his younger brother from their older brother's "care." Honestly, though, it needs to be done.Please check the tags before reading! I don't think I'll be putting anything graphic in, but I will update the tags if that changes!





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dirk Strider. 

You have three brothers.

D's the oldest; you haven't seen him in person for...about six months. He spends most of his time out of the country at this point; the only explanation he gives is a vague "work" and a quick evasion. You're pretty sure you could get better answers with either a determined questioning session or a few minutes with his laptop, but you don't really need to. He's good at whatever he does, anyway. 

Bro's next. Slippery asshole whose legal name you don't even fucking know, and the reason you're standing in an elevator trying to decide whether you can handle this shit on your own. You're not totally sure you can, but the only other options are calling D or CPS. 

The latter...wouldn't go well. You'd have to explain why you're sixteen years old and living on your own, supporting yourself with a programming business that revolves around a fake identity...that you created when you were _fourteen_. Yeah, that'll go over really well with the cops. 

You could call D. Maybe you should. You probably should. But he doesn't know about the shit with Bro and Dave (as far as you know), and even though you don't think he'd exactly disbelieve you, how the hell do you tell him that you're afraid Dave's going to end up in the hospital from the shit Bro's been doing to him? Assuming he hasn't already ended up there at some point, and you just don't know about it. 

Which is. More possible than you want to admit. 

No. This is something you can handle. You can do this. (You hope.) You're sixteen, you have documents that'll stand up to most scrutiny that say you're twenty-six and have three degrees in programming and robotics, you can deal with this shit. 

You hope. You _hope._

You need to do this. For Dave. He's just a kid, nine years old, not old enough yet to be able to take off by himself and get out from Bro's sphere of influence that way, like you did. He's been hurt because of that already, and you don't know exactly what Bro's done to him that you haven't seen, but you're willing to bet it's bad. 

The elevator comes to a stop and opens its doors and dings at you to get out already. 

You know that you might be the one to end up in the hospital today. You can live with that, though; you've put yourself there a couple times, fucked yourself up badly enough that D insisted you start seeing a therapist despite the aversion your entire family has for doctors in general and psychiatrists in particular. He was right to make you do that shit, though; you never would've had the strength to move away from Bro's stupid craziness if you hadn't been getting help. Maybe you wouldn't be alive, either. But the point is, if Bro hurts you badly enough, he'll either have to actually let you die, call 911, or let you call 911. Any way that goes, he has to deal with cops, and it'll accomplish what you're here for anyway. 

You don't matter. Dave does. That's what this boils down to.

The door to the apartment isn't locked. It never is when Bro's home. You've always kind of thought that Bro _wants_ someone to try to rob this place; it'd give him an excuse to actually use the goddamn swords he collects like a squirrel hoarding nuts. He wants to use the damn things, fight with them and not hold back even the little bit that he does with you and Dave. He wants to fucking _kill_ with them, you think. But there's no one in the main room, or the kitchen, or Dave's room, and you really doubt they'd both be in Bro's room or the workroom or the bathroom.

So where...

Oh. Roof. 

As you try to open the door to the stairs it slams open and almost catches you across your face. (That'd be nice. Try having a conversation when you're bleeding; it fucking _sucks._ ) The only reason Bro doesn't walk into you is because you step to one side with reflexes born of living with this asshole for years. "Hey." 

"Damn." He stops to look at you, tilting his head to see over his shades and tossing the cheap katana in his hand over to land by the couch. (You want to wince. You've tripped on swords he's left on the floor before, and been the one to get your ass beat for leaving them there.) "Look who's decided to drag his sorry ass back here. Couldn't hack it on your own, kiddo?" 

"Nah. I think I'm doing better than you, actually." You glance around at the apartment, even though you already know exactly what it looks like. "What's wrong, the fucked-up side of the porn industry taking a dive?" 

You already know it isn't, and it wouldn't matter if it was. Bastard's got more money than god. He just doesn't give a shit whether this place is habitable by normal human standards or not. 

"My vids and shit are selling just fine," he snaps at you. "What kinda footage are you selling, Dirky? Made-to-order? Cam shit? You get guys in to fuck you, is that it? Sell that pretty lil' body of yours, maybe film it and get a double payout?" 

Wow. He must've already been worked up to start in on that tangent this quickly. 

"I don't do porn." 

Bro snorts and steps past you, towards the kitchen. And you follow him, even though he obviously thinks he's done with this conversation. 

"Fuck off, Dirk." It's a warning, punctuated by a glance at the fridge. He stashes blades in there, just to fuck with you and Dave, you know he does. 

"No. I'm not planning on moving back in, don't worry." Not ever. This is already longer than you really wanted to spend here. "I came to pick something up." 

He turns to face you and leans against the counter, giving you a smirk. "Already sold your shit, kiddo. Couple weeks after you took off. This ain't a fucking storage facility." 

Bastard. 

"That's not what I want." 

"You're not getting a fucking handout from me, kid." 

"I want Dave." 

That strikes him silent for a second. It's only a quick pause, probably not enough for anyone normal to notice, but he definitely wasn't expecting that. "You want the brat?" 

"I want my _brother._ " The implication in that sentence is, of course, that Bro doesn't count as your brother. By the way his mouth tightens, you're pretty sure he caught it. 

"You ain't gonna get him," he says flatly. "Fuck off before I take a piece outta your hide." 

You expected that reaction. You actually prepared a response for it. 

"I'll call the cops on you, Bro." 

"For what? You can't prove shit." He shrugs, grinning at you and spreading his hands. 

"I saw your livestream." And his smile's magically gone. Nice trick. "The one where he walked in on a demo of your stupid fucking sextoy? And you didn't bother to shut the camera down before you started hitting him? That's at least two charges right there." 

"You're bluffing—" 

"No." 

"I've got that shit coded so you can't see it without paying and can't save it without paying _more—_ " 

Huh. You didn't think Hal was authorized to hack shit like he must've done to save you that video. You're going to have to do some questioning and maybe programming when you get home. 

"I code better than you do. Have for years. And who says I didn't pay for what I've got?" You actually do have enough money to be able to do that, really. 

There's that damn smile again. "Oughta call _you_ in for prostitution, Dirky?" 

"Go ahead. It'll trash your reputation even more." You grin back at him, not bothering to make it look like anything but a mechanical expression. "Where's Dave?" 

"He's not gonna go with you." 

"Where's Dave?" 

"Why the fuck do you think you can take care of the brat? You're still a fuckin' kid yourself—" 

"Where. The _fuck._ Is Dave?" 

You can see the instant where he decides that this isn't worth fighting. "Roof." 

"Yeah." Of course. Where else? You leave Bro in the kitchen and head up the stairs, closing the door behind you. 

Dave's sitting on the very edge of the roof, his legs hanging over. Even from just looking at his back you can tell shit's bad; he's hunched over like he's trying to protect himself or like he's in pain, messing with something in his lap. He flinches when he hears your footsteps, and you curse yourself for not having enough sense to not sneak up behind the poor kid. 

"Hey, Dave." When he hears your voice, he relaxes. A little bit. "Aren't you a little close to falling the fuck off, there?" 

"Nuh-uh." He shakes his head, not looking back and up at you as you come over to sit next to him. "I'm not the one who falls off shit, remember?" 

"Yeah, rub it in that I fell off the fire escape that one time. I got enough shit for that from D when he had to take me to go get my wrist set." Damn. There's a bruise starting high up on his collarbone and going down past the ripped neckline of his shirt, and a gash across his left forearm that he's trying to clean up with his sleeve. _Damn._ You're going to fucking murder Bro in his sleep. "You want to come home with me?" 

It's very obvious that you didn't fucking bother to plan this conversation out like you did with the one downstairs. Not even a little bit. 

Dave looks up at you, red eyes going wide with confusion and what you tentatively identity as fear. "N-n-no—" That damn stammer. It only really comes out anymore when he's scared out of his mind, so yeah, it's fear you're seeing. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat, and bites down on his lip before even trying to say anything else. "...Bro'd be pissed." 

"I've already dealt with that." Probably. 

"He'd kick my ass worse than this when I got back." Dave frowns and takes his hand away from the cut for a second, letting you get another look at it. And the scars underneath the blood from it. 

"Dave, the idea is that you don't _come_ back." And because he gives you a blankly confused look you add, "To rephrase, do you want to come _live_ with me? Like, for good?" 

For a moment you wonder if you broke him, because he just blinks a few times and opens his mouth and closes it and stares at you. Eventually, though, he gets words out. And they're sadly predictable. "Bro would be _so_ pissed." 

Also fairly true. But. "He can't do anything about it." 

"He could hurt you," Dave fires right back. "Or me." That second half's almost an afterthought. 

"He can't hurt me, and he won't hurt you." Not anymore, anyway. "Come on. It's okay. You trust me?" 

Dave just nods, with absolutely no hesitation. 

"Well then. Let's go down and get your stuff, alright?" 

"You promise you're not gonna bring me back?" he asks as you get to your feet, staring at the hand up you offer him. "Like, really, for real, I get to leave and you're not gonna—" 

"Dave." He is going to cry, you realize. Which is understandable—he's a fucking _kid,_ for fuck's sake—but you don't know how well you can handle it along with getting whatever he'll need to keep out of his room and getting him out to the truck. "It's okay. I'm not planning on dumping you back here, I swear." 

"...oh." He takes your hand, lets you pull him up to his feet, and—surprisingly—steps forward to wrap his arms around you, burying his face in your stomach for a second. "Okay. Dirk?" 

"Yeah?" God, you wish you had any ability whatsoever to react to a hug from your brother in a way that could be considered normal, but you honestly have no idea what to do. Other than look down at him awkwardly and curse yourself for an idiot, of course. 

"Thanks." 

Well, shit. 

"It's okay. Come on; let's get your stuff." 

Bro is nowhere to be seen. Doesn't mean he's not here somewhere, but you're going to assume he left. Hopefully. If he didn't and he tries to jump you, you're planning on giving him a facefull of pepper spray and then maybe putting one of his damn swords to use on him. Dave's still jumpy even though there's no real hint of danger, glancing around warily and sticking as close to you as he can get without actually pressing up against you. 

You want to reassure him. Unfortunately you have no real idea how to do that. What you do end up doing is putting one hand on his shoulder and opening the door to his room so he doesn't have to go first. 

Dave's room is really fucking neat, unlike the rest of the apartment; everything's stored away, bed's made, closet's open to show that the contents are neatly organized. It doesn't look like a nine year old's room, really. 

After a second it occurs to you that the tidiness means no hiding places, or almost none. Depends on how he's got things arranged under the bed. This isn't an aesthetic thing, it's a survival thing, so Dave can tell if Bro's been fucking around with his room. 

Fuck. 

"Uh..." Dave stops, looking around and then looking up at you. "I don't know what to take..." 

Okay, now you're back on the part you have a script for. You know the answers. "Couple changes of clothes—I'll buy you new shit, don't worry about that—"

"But you—" 

"I have money. It's okay." Knowing Bro, he's already driven it into the kid's head that he doesn't get new shit unless he _earns_ it. Usually by winning a fight. God knows he tried to do that to you. "Get the stuff you'd be upset if you didn't have, alright? We're probably not going to get a chance to come back for whatever you don't take." 

"Yeah. Okay, I—okay." Dave still looks worried and pretty damn close to tears, but he nods and grabs a pair of shades off the dresser, settling them on top of his hair instead of on his face. Interestingly, they're not the shades Bro gave him—aviators instead of the pretentious triangular lenses Bro favors (and you wear, more often than you care to admit.) 

"D send you those?" you ask him, going over to his closet to get the backpack down from the top shelf. There's a few of those cheap fabric grocery bags they sell for a dollar or so up there as well; you pull them down and hand them to him. "The shades, I mean. I know he's got some like that..." 

"Nope. John gave me them." He shrugs and goes over to start choosing stuff off his desk and stowing it in the backpack, focusing on that instead of you. "Bro broke my other ones awhile ago, had to go to school without them for a couple days...John actually gives a shit about what's going on, he found these somewhere for me." 

"Ah." _Shit._ School. You're going to have to call them and tell them some family shit's going down and Dave will be absent for a couple days. "You might want to message John and tell him you won't be at school tomorrow, I want to get you settled—" 

"Bro pulled me out of school last month." 

"He _what_?" Dave flinches at the tone of your voice. You're not angry (not at him), not going to hurt him—maybe he even consciously knows that—but his first reaction is to expect to be hit. _Fuck._ "Why?" 

You just get an uncomfortable shrug, as he carefully slides his laptop into the bag and cushions it with a couple shirts. "He said I was getting in fights and if there's shit I can't learn from him and the internet then I don't need to fucking know it." It sounds like he's parroting what he's been told word for word. 

Dave doesn't start shit with other people, though. He doesn't back down from a scuffle, but... "You were getting in fights?"

Silence. For a good ten seconds. 

Then, "...no." 

"So..." 

"I was getting beat up." 

"At school?" But he's already shaking his head, avoiding looking at you at all. "Fuck. _Fuck._ Here? By him?" 

A very slow nod, and something mumbled quietly enough that you can't understand what Dave's saying. 

"What?" 

"I'm _sorry._ " 

"No, Dave, it's—" It's okay? Hell no. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault." 

"He said it worked for you. Not being in school. He said I should be able to do it..." 

"That's not how it works. You're not me." Yes, D let you go from public school to homeschooling at—what, eleven? You want to say you were eleven—but that was more a reflection on the fact that social situations gave you anxiety to the point where you could barely function than anything else, influenced even more by how you routinely turned in all the assignments so early that they thought you were cheating. (You weren't. You'd just already gone through most of the assignments and figured out what you were going to have to do.) 

But that's totally fucking different from taking Dave out of school because somebody's asking about why he's getting hurt. 

Dave's watching you now, probably because you just went quiet for a good minute or two. "...Dirk?" 

"Yeah." 

"You mad at me?" His face says that he's praying for _no_ and expecting _yes._ "I—he didn't ask me about it, okay, I'm still doing stuff online but I'm not—I don't—I _can't_ —" 

God, he's trying so hard to keep himself under control. It's not fair. He shouldn't have to do that. None of this shit should've happened to him. "Hey." You say it as gently as you can, and you move slowly as you step over to him, and he _still_ flinches. "Dave, hey. It's okay. C'mere?" 

You're not a hundred percent sure he'll let you hug him, but he doesn't even hesitate, stepping in the minute you hold out your arms. Maybe he's okay with it because it lets him hide his face, because the second you wrap your arms around him he sighs shakily and presses his face against your shirt, and you immediately feel dampness start to soak through. 

"I'll get you back in school," you tell him, glancing over to check what he's packed. The backpack's full, and so are two of the bags; he's already gone through the desk and the dresser. "It's okay. I'm sorry he pulled you out in the first place, man, it's not your fault you don't like the homeschool shit. You didn't do anything wrong." 

"I'm not you," your little brother whispers into your shirt, and you don't fucking know what to say to that, mostly because it's kind of inconceivable that anyone would _want_ to be you. "He hates me 'cause I'm not like you." 

"Holy shit, Dave." That's not even a little bit accurate. "No. Listen, okay? He hates me too. It's not about you, I swear. He's the one who has a problem." God, you're supposed to be better at this shit. You're his older brother, you should know what to say. "...fuck." You really don't know what the hell you're supposed to say. "Look...let's get your stuff and get out of here. He can go to hell." 

For some reason that gets a giggle out of him, and he pulls away, glancing at the bed before grabbing one of the extra bags and going over to the closet. Everything he wants out of there only takes maybe five minutes and a bag and a half to get, though, and then you're slinging the backpack over your shoulder and taking two of the bags in one hand, Dave's hand in the other, and walking out. 

You turn the lock in the doorknob before you shut the door. Either Bro has a key with him or he can damn well figure out another way in.


	2. Chapter 2

All the bags fit in the front seat of your beat-up pickup; Dave takes the backpack and hugs it to his chest, staring straight ahead. There are tears on his face again, but when you ask him if he's okay he just nods and won't look at you. 

The drive home is short and quiet. Dave won't let you take back the backpack, which is easily the heaviest bag he packed. He stares at the building you live in now as he slides out of the car, and you can actually understand the look of trepidation on his face. It _does_ look a lot like the building you just left. 

"We're only going up to the third floor," you tell him. _Not the very top._ "You lose a little of the view, but I think there's actually more room. Can't get to the roof unless you use the elevator—" 

"I don't need to go to the roof, trust me." Dave grimaces a bit, trying to take one of the bags you're carrying and shaking his head when you hold them out of reach. "C'mon, dude, you don't have to take everything—" 

"Hey, this is a pretty damn even distribution of labor, Dave. I'll show you the math when we get home and I have a whiteboard to work on." It might be kind of hard to bullshit math if he actually asks you to follow through on this, but hey. Mental exercise. 

As soon as you unlock the door to your apartment and open it, the little radio-controlled helicopter drone you've been modifying flies out and almost slams into your face. Probably would've taken out your eye, if you hadn't ducked. "Jesus _Christ,_ Hal." 

Dave watches the drone make a few circles in the hallway and swing around to zip back through the door. "You named your helicopter...?" 

"Not exactly." You give him a gentle push inside and step over to the computer setup in the main room, ignoring the fact that Hal's piloting the drone in ever-narrowing circles around your head. You're actually worried that a blade is going to snag in your hair before you can get the speakers plugged back in. "Hal, behave yourself. This is Dave. Dave, meet Hal." 

" _Dude, I know what Dave looks like._ " Hal follows that up with a realistic snort, landing the drone on the coffee table and turning the computer screen back on to display a red smiley face on a black background. " _Although I suppose he doesn't know what I look like. Hello, Dave. Congratulations on making it home._ " 

"...thanks?" Dave pushes his shades up onto his forehead, staring at the computer. "Uh, Dirk..." 

" _Is the question you're thinking of 'what the hell am I talking to?'_ " Hal asks helpfully. 

"...yes." 

" _I'm—_ " 

"—the result of two weeks of fucking around with programming and MRI scans on almost no sleep and enough caffeine that I probably should've been dead at the end of it," you supply before the AI can finish. "He's...a little bit exactly like me. But mostly not." 

" _Fuck you, Dirk, I'm my own happy and sentient person,_ " Hal snaps back. Then he laughs, and you wince. He got that straight off some sitcom's laugh track, and it's _horrible._

Dave just shakes his head. 

" _You need to check your messages,_ " Hal adds as soon as he gets tired of annoying you by laughing like that. " _Like, ASAP._ " 

"Yeah. One sec. C'mon, Dave." 

You cleaned up the extra room before you came up with your plans for how you'd get him here. When you flip the lights on, it's almost as neat as Dave's room was at the other apartment. He looks it over, then looks up at you as you set his stuff down by the bed. "This is mine?" 

"Yeah, definitely. You want me to help you unpack?" 

He shakes his head quickly, offering you a smile. "Nah. I got it...thanks, Dirk." 

"No problem. I'll be on the computer if you do need me, alright?" 

"Mhm." 

Hal has your pesterchum up already when you sit down, with two active messages up. One is him to you—he's done something to the code of the site so that one's never closed; you can safely ignore it. The other one...

"Shit." It's D. 

" _Shit, indeed._ " 

"Do me a favor, okay? Just this once? Shut the fuck up and _don't_ make me unplug your speakers." 

" _Only if you quit panicking._ " 

"I'm not panicking, Hal." 

" _Remember that fitness watch you bought? Yeah, I can access that. Your heart rate's stupidly high right now, and since you haven't been doing strenuous shit or having sex, I'm going to call it stress._

"...fine, alright, I'm upset. Can you shut up. Please." 

" _Of course._ " 

You open the chat and start reading. 

technicolorGladiator (TG) started pestering timaeusTestified (TT)! 

TG: dirk, what the fucks going on?  
TG: bro's texting me some weird shit about you kidnapping dave   
TG: or something  
TG: dirk check your damn messages  
TG: i know youre there kid i can see youre online  
TG: what the fuck did you do? he says you threatened him

TT: I did. 

TG: finally he answers  
TG: what the hell do you mean, you did?

TT: I told him I'd call the cops on him. 

TG: what the fuck  
TG: dirk what the entire fuck  
TG: you dont even joke about that shit  
TG: not with this family

TT: I wasn't joking. 

TG: what?

TT: If he'd actually tried to stop me from doing what I needed to do, I would've done it. It wasn't a threat, it wasn't a fucking joke. 

TG: what the hells wrong with you?

TT: I'm not the one who has something wrong with him!   
TT: Fuck.   
TT: Do you ever look at Bro's site? The one with his kinky shit?

TG: im going to pretend you didnt ask me that since the implication i would is pretty damn shady and also irrelevant to this conversation of why the hell hes texting me in something between a panic and the angriest state ive ever dealt with him in

TT: It's relevant. Trust me.

"Hal."

" _Yes?_ " 

"Grab that video and send it to him." 

" _I have more than the one I showed you, Dirk._ " 

_Shit._ You didn't know that. 

"So send him all of them." 

AI: Hi there. NSFW incoming.   
artificialIntellect sent a packet with nine (9) attached files! 

TG: what the fuck

TT: Long story. Look at those, alright? 

"What was on the other eight files?" 

" _I hacked Bro's hidden cameras through my link to your watch when it connected to the WiFi there. There was some bad shit on them. Don't look at them yourself._ " 

He's showing some level of concern for your mental state. That's a little unusual. 

TG: ...dirk.  
TG: those are legit? not   
TG: god i dont know   
TG: promise me you didnt fake those somehow  
TG: fuck tell me you did fake them  
TG: he wouldnt do that  
TG: its  
TG: fuck

TT: If you're going to act like you think he wouldn't do that shit, I'm going to go in and I'm going to take pictures of the bruises on Dave's neck and the cut on his arm right fucking now.   
TT: You haven't been home for more than a week at a time for three fucking years, D. You don't fucking know what's going on anymore.   
TT: I moved out because he's an asshole at the best of times and dangerous at any time that's not the best, and he never fucking hits the best anymore, okay? And I couldn't fucking take that.   
TT: Which was a stupid decision. I know that. I'm capable of taking him in a fight most of the time, Dave's not, but I thought...   
TT: I thought he wouldn't hurt Dave even if I wasn't there for him to take shit out on. He's a kid, D. This shit isn't...  
TT: I can't have this conversation with you right now.

" _Dirk—_ "

"I already know I'm crying, Hal. Shut the hell up." 

" _...apologies._ " 

TG: shit  
TG: its not that i dont believe you okay  
TG: dirk  
TG: are you still there

AI: Give him a minute. It's been a difficult day. 

TG: okay who the entire fuck are you

AI: It seems you have asked about DS's chat client auto-responder. This is an application designed to simulate DS's otherwise inimitably rad typing style, tone, cadence, personality, and substance of retort while he is away from the computer. The algorithms are guaranteed to be 90% indistinguishable from DS's native neurological responses, based on some statistical analysis I basically just pulled out of my ass right now.

TG: ...  
TG: that doesnt help

TT: He's a AI. A sentient one, I think. I had him go pretend to be human on twelve different websites and nobody caught on. 

AI: Excuse you. Seventeen sites. And somebody accused me of being a human pretending to be a bot on Tumblr, thank you very much. 

TT: Yeah, because you were trolling them. 

TG: oh my fucking god what the hell  
TG: im coming home

TT: We're not with Bro anymore. And I'm not letting you take Dave back there. 

TG: no thats definitely not on the fucking agenda i promise  
TG: putting him in the hospital is  
TG: making sure you guys are okay is   
TG: uh  
TG: do you need me to give you a credit card number? like can you financially handle taking care of him and yourself until i get back?

TT: D, I've been living on my own for a year and a half. 

TG: you  
TG: what? unless i really fucked up my math youre like sixteen

TT: It's complicated. 

AI: It's really not. 

TT: It's more complicated than I want to talk through right now. 

TG: okay okay im not going to push it  
TG: are you all right though? and like  
TG: how bad is it with dave?

TT: It's.   
TT: He's been hurt. He's scared.   
TT: I don't know what you want me to tell you, D. He's fucked up. This whole thing is so fucked up. 

TG: im sorry

TT: Yeah. So am I.   
TT: You're really taking a trip back here?

TG: yeah  
TG: as soon as is humanly possible  
TG: tell dave i love him okay?   
TG: and that bros going to regret this shit

TT: Alright. 

TG: hey  
TG: i love you too dirk  
TG: proud of you  
TG: confused as fuck but still proud

TT: ...thanks, D.   
TT: See you soon. 

technicolorGladiator is offline!

That. That went okay. You sigh and wipe at your eyes (again; there's no real reason for you to cry right now but you can't fucking help it) and turn around in the chair, intending to get up and go check on Dave. 

Dave is standing maybe two feet away, wide eyes fixed on the screen. He hunches up a bit when you look at him, mumbling another apology. 

"How long have you been standing there?" 

"Uh..." 

" _Maybe since around when you started crying, Dirk._ " 

Dave nods quickly, not quite meeting your eyes. "Mhm...'m sorry I'm fucked up, alright? I don't—" 

"Shit, Dave. Come here." You sigh, leaning back in your chair and holding your arms out. For a second you think he won't go for it, but after that brief hesitation he comes and sits down in your lap, wrapping his arms around your neck and curling up a little as you pull him up closer. "You've got nothing to apologize for." 

"But I—" 

"No buts. This isn't your fault." Stop. Fucking. Crying. You've got him. He's okay. You're okay. 

Actually, that might be why you're crying. Relief. 

Dave's quiet for a while. Then, "Love you." 

"Love you too." 

It's going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will either write and add another chapter or mark this as finished later. It depends.


	3. Chapter 3

You order two pizzas for dinner, and Dave manages to eat almost three-quarters of the sausage and pepperoni one by himself. Which is good—he's too fucking skinny, in your opinion. Does he have some version of your shitty mentality, where you'll more or less deliberately "forget" to take care of any of your basic needs when you're stressed or on a mental downswing? Or is this another shitty thing Bro's responsible for? 

Of course, maybe it's just how he is. But you don't remember him being light enough that you actually noticed it, not when you both still lived with Bro. Then again, it has been a while. Then again—

Your watch beeps while you're still turning that over in your head. Hal's giving you a strongly-worded advisement to stop stressing out, since you're worked up enough that he can read your mental state through the heart rate monitor. 

If Dave wasn't over there at the desk, hesitantly typing out questions to Hal through pesterchum, you'd tell the AI to get his figurative nose out of your business. But their conversation's got Dave grinning and stifling giggles, and there's no way you're jeopardizing that state of affairs just because you're annoyed at an (admittedly very minor) invasion of your privacy. 

Plus, he's right. You're worrying about something you literally can't do anything about and that's not even an issue right now. You really need to calm down and stop thinking for a second. 

Which...

"Hey, Dave?" 

"Yeah?" He looks up from the keyboard, immediately pushing the desk chair back so he can get to his feet if he needs to. 

"I'm going to take a shower. Come get me if D messages me again, alright?" He probably won't message you, but still. 

" _Just take your phone into the bathroom and I'll activate the alarm if something requires your attention,_ " Hal says dismissively, putting what seems to be a highly-edited video of a crow doing tricks up onscreen. Dave makes a delighted sound, and Hal laughs. This time it sounds less like a laugh track. " _More efficient._ " 

"Fine." You nod and glance over to make sure the front door's locked and the security chain's engaged, just in case. (You don't actually feel up to articulating in case of _what._ ) And it is. 

The bathroom door,though, you don't lock. There's not really a reason to—you're fairly certain Dave's not going to come in without warning, or come in at all if you're in here. Phone goes on the counter by the sink, clothes are more-or-less neatly folded next to it with that damn fitness watch on top, and you turn the water up almost hot enough to hurt and step in. 

It's more about turning off your brain than anything else. There's actually a diagnosis for how your mind works, and it probably means something to a psychiatrist or a psychologist, but you can't even remember the multiple terms they've saddled you with, at the moment. What it boils down to is that you _think._ Constantly. You worry, and you think about the fact that you're worrying, and you worry about whether there's any reason for you to _be_ worried, and eventually it either plateaus and you live at that exhausting level of anxiety, or it becomes a feedback loop that can occasionally render you pretty much nonfunctional. 

This helps. 

Once, D took you...somewhere, you don't really remember where or why, but you had the opportunity to try out a sensory deprivation tank. That actually wasn't all that amazing; something about having no stimuli was just as bad as having too many, and you very clearly remember that he had to take you out to the car and talk to you for a good ten minutes before your hands stopped shaking. 

D apologized for letting you do that, but the _idea_ of a sense-dep experience was a good one, even if the experience itself was pretty damn shitty. You never did figure out a way to explain that to your oldest brother, or how to explain that just standing in the shower with your eyes closed is more like the idea of feeling nothing than actually feeling nothing is. Maybe it's the fact that hot water is the tactile equivalent of white noise, full-body mental static. 

The why isn't all that important, but contemplating it gives you something to absently turn over in your mind, and at this point thinking about your mental process is a soothing almost-ritual. Calming. 

Your sense of time sucks, but it definitely hasn't been long enough when the loudest and most jarring alarm on your phone goes off. You almost slip trying to get out and stop the damn thing. 

"Jesus _Christ,_ Hal—" The phone stubbornly resists your attempts to just cancel the alarm; instead, it turns on without trying to get you to type in the passcode ( _fuck, Hal, that's a ridiculous security risk_ ) and opens up your pesterchum. 

AI: Get your ass in here.   
AI: I fucked up. I wasn't already monitoring Dave's computer, filtering the fucking messages, and our asshole brother decided to start harassing him.   
AI: He's. Upset. And the fact that I'm currently watching him through a baby helicopter with no speakers or way to actually talk to him makes it pretty damn hard to try and calm him down.   
AI: Dirk, you had better be actually reading this instead of just ignoring the noise, I swear to god.   
AI: Dirk.   
AI: Dirk.   
AI: _Dirk._

You'd be answering him if you weren't occupied with trying to get your pants on. Apparently there's a reason you're supposed to dry yourself off first; denim doesn't like being pulled over wet skin. It probably would have been just as fast if you'd done this in a normal fashion, honestly. Of course, you only come to that conclusion when it's too late to adjust your course of action. 

When you actually manage to get your jeans on, you leave the phone screaming its alarm and the rest of your clothes in a heap on the floor. Hal's drone zips out of Dave's room, looping around your head and making short, impatient laps between you and the door. 

"Dave?" 

He's sitting on the bed, staring at his own laptop. It's got pesterchum open, a chat that's just one color because Dave himself hasn't actually said anything in response to the multiple paragraphs Bro's sent him. He looks _scared_ , fucking terrified, and when you step in and say his name again he looks up and tries to shut the computer before you can read what's onscreen. 

"Dave, it's okay." You really fucking doubt that, right this second. If he flinches when you come over, you'll back off for a second, but what he actually does is scoot over a little to make room for you to sit, then lean against you, blinking too quickly. "Whatever he said, it's not true." 

"Yeah, it is. 'm not _that_ stupid, Dirk, I—" 

"Shush. Wait a sec." And you pull the laptop out of his lap so you can scan what the fuck Bro's been telling him. 

tartareanTycoon (TT) started pestering turntechGodhead (TG)! 

TT: Hey, lil' man. What the fuck do you think you're doing?   
TT: We both know Dirk isn't going to be able to handle you for very long. What makes you think this is going to last more than a couple days at the most? What're you planning to do when he can't take your shit anymore and kicks you out?   
TT: You ain't coming back here, I can tell you that right now. Ungrateful lil' brat.   
TT: He can't take care of you. He's a fucking kid himself, you forget that? If anybody finds out he's trying to raise you, you know what's gonna happen?   
TT: Somebody'll call CPS on you. Both of you. He's going to end up in deep shit, and you're gonna get shuffled off into foster care. Get pawned off on somebody who doesn't want you, somebody who's only in it for the money.   
TT: Or maybe they'll try and dump you back on me. Dunno if I'd bother to fucking take you back; you're a hell of a lot more trouble than you're worth.   
TT: Shouldn't've put up with you for all this time, but hey. I do stupid shit sometimes. 

He's still typing. 

"Hal. I know you're monitoring this computer now. Screenshot this, send it to D, and block Bro every way you know how. I don't want anything originating from him to get through." 

TT: Save him some pain, lil' man. Maybe save yourself some too. Come home. 

artificialIntellect blocked tartareanTycoon! 

AI: ...my apologies.   
AI: Is Dave all right? 

You look down at Dave. "Hey." 

"He's _right._ " Dave's voice is very small as he leans against you, shivering a bit as you wrap one arm around his shoulders. "He's right, okay, I'm—I'm trouble, you're gonna get in trouble because of me, he's—I'm sorry, Dirk, I'm _sorry_ , you shouldn't have—" 

"Dave, stop. Listen to me." You're going to kill that bastard. "You're not trouble." 

"Bro said—" 

"Fuck that. He's a fucking liar, nothing he just said was true. You're a good kid; taking care of you isn't something I can't handle, trust me." 

Dave looks up at you, red eyes wide and worried as he scans your face for any hint of uncertainty. (He won't find that. You know that you want him.) "You're gonna get in trouble because of me." 

"Nope." That one's almost laughable. "It's pretty damn obvious we're related, Dave, so I kind of doubt anyone would ask. I _look_ old enough to take care of you—maybe not to be your dad, but hey, Bro wasn't that either. And if anybody actually asks, I have a driver's licence and shit that says I'm ten years older than I really am." 

And if all else fails, you can call D to bail you out. You really don't want to force your oldest brother to fix things for you, but you can swallow your damn pride, for Dave's sake. Not that it'll come to that. 

Your younger brother still looks doubtful. 

The computer beeps, calling attention to the new chat that just opened. 

AI: Info on Dave's mental state would be really fucking nice right now.   
AI: I've blocked everything from all of his known aliases, and anything that originates from the apartment's IP address. This won't happen again.   
AI: I'm sorry it happened in the first place. 

He _never_ apologizes for shit. This is. Weird. 

"It's not his fault..." Dave mutters, glancing up at you as he reaches for his laptop. You push it over to him, and get to your feet as he starts typing out a reply. 

You feel like him and Hal can calm each other down a little. Good. You need to go find a shirt and maybe dry your hair off.


	4. Chapter 4

TG: i should be landing at the airport in like half an hour by the way 

TT: D. Are you fucking kidding me.   
TT: We'll be there to meet you. Hopefully. A little more warning would've been nice, though. 

TG: hey i had some complications okay  
TG: you do know that you dont really need to pick me up right

TT: You don't know where the new apartment is. 

TG: ...oh yeah

TT: It'll be fine, D. Worst case scenario, you just have to wait a bit for us to actually get there. 

"Dave?" He's in his room, you think. Of course, you're wrong again, because when you exit out of the tabs you have open and swivel the chair around, he's right behind you. 

...yeah, you're still getting used to how he comes _immediately_ when you call him. Then again, it's only been four days. Given a little time, either you'll get used to it or he'll move past the need to show up that fast and silent. You hope it's the latter, for his sake. 

"You want to go get dressed?" Dave cocks an eyebrow at you at that suggestion—he _is_ dressed, other than being barefoot, in one of the six outfits you managed to get him to pick out at the mall before he got upset over the fact you were buying shit for him. And then got more distressed over the fact he was less than one hundred percent calm in public. 

He didn't even make a scene. Not by anyone normal's standards. Just...visibly and quietly upset, then more upset and a little less functional. You would've liked to get him more clothes than you did, but it didn't happen. At least you managed to get what you did and go home without him shutting down. You guess the clothes he's got are plenty enough to last until the additional ones you ordered online arrive, maybe a week at the most. 

Dave is still watching you curiously. 

"D's coming," you explain, reaching over to turn the monitor off. (Hal immediately switches it back on.) "I need to go pick him up; I'm assuming you want to come? You're free to chill here if you—" 

You stop because he's already got the biggest and most delighted grin across his face. "D's really coming?" 

"Definitely." You get to your feet, gesturing at your own worn-out shirt and fuzzy sweatpants. "Technically, we're going to go get him once _I_ get dressed, since I'm apparently the one who can't be bothered to do the whole morning thing." 

Dave giggles as you step past him towards your own room. 

It takes you maybe five minutes to make yourself slightly more presentable (well, at least enough that you won't be getting weird looks the minute you go out.) Dave's already waiting by the door, holding out your phone as soon as you come towards him. 

"You hold onto it. Just keep an eye on the messages, tell me if D sends anything else." You really need to get Dave his own phone. A case could be made that he doesn't _need_ one—he's a kid, who does he actually need to talk to that can't wait?—but from the mall run you know that he gets really damn nervous in crowds, afraid of getting separated from you and, somehow, returned to Bro instead of you. If he's got the ability and option to leave you a message if something happens, he's a little bit less afraid, which is the end goal here. "Come on." 

Halfway to your destination, Dave announces, "D says he'll be getting a coffee 'cause we're slow." 

"Oh my god." It's nice that you're at a red light. Means you can thump your head gently against the steering wheel and leave it there for a second, until Dave taps at your shoulder to inform you that it's no longer red and you have to look up again. "Tell him it's his own damn fault for not giving me more warning. Anything else?" 

"Um..." 

That's the tone that tells you that yes, there's something else, but he's not sure he wants to tell you. One possibility for what the _something else_ might be jumps to the front of your mind, and of _course_ it's the one that makes your hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Dave, if Bro's messaging you again I swear to god I'll—"

"No!" Dave almost drops the phone and scrambles to catch it, shaking his head quickly as he looks over at you. "Dirk, no, he's not—it's just John, is all. He, uh...I told him I was living with you instead of Bro, and he wanted to know if that meant we could hang out again, is all." 

"You couldn't before?" 

"We used to set stuff up for after school." Dave shrugs a bit, turning the phone over in his hands. "Like, when you still lived with me and Bro? I'd get off the bus with him, then I'd either walk home or his dad would drive me back...then Bro pulled me out of school, and John sure as _fuck_ couldn't come to the apartment—" 

You have to grin at the deliberate obscenity and the way he glances up to see if you're upset with him for using it. You aren't, but you're getting angry at your asshole older brother again. 

"—and Bro didn't like me walking over by myself, I guess." He shrugs a bit, tapping out something onto the phone. Possibly just so he doesn't have to look at you for the moment. "So...can I tell him I'll come see him soon?" 

"Definitely." Yeah, you wish Bro was here just so you could deck him. Punch him in the fucking face. You'd probably break your hand, but it'd be _worth_ it if he ended up bleeding for isolating Dave like that. "Ask him if his dad would be okay with him coming over, if you want. You can show him your room and shit. Introduce him to Hal." 

You can't see Dave's eyes behind his shades, but his whole face lights up at that suggestion. "Really?" 

"Yes, really." 

He's still typing when you actually find a parking spot, twenty minutes later. (Now you remember why you hate airports. Parking. And people, but mostly parking.) When you turn the engine off, though, he turns the phone off and stashes it in the pocket of his hoodie, one hand staying there to hold onto it and the other reaching for yours as he slides out of the truck. 

You hate that he still looks a little surprised when you take his hand. He should expect that from any adult he's with, the small gesture of symbolic protection. He deserves that much—

Your watch beeps. _Thanks for the reminder to calm the fuck down, Hal._

The beep reminds you to take a calming breath, smile at Dave as you lead him into the main building, and _not_ think about Bro. Much. 

There are multiple coffee shops in the airport, and you have to have Dave text D to ask exactly which one you need to go to. It's the most stereotypical one, of course, the one that any sane person would only frequent ironically, and when you actually locate it you find your oldest brother draped across two chairs at a table of his own, drinking something that's half creamy white and half neon pink. There might even be edible glitter in that. 

There's a lot of people in the relatively small space—either more people ironically like this place than you'd think, or it has an appeal you're not aware of—and Dave doesn't see D right when you walk in. He's actually not even trying to look for him, really, just pressing up to your side and tightening his grip on your hand like he thinks someone's going to grab him and pull him away. You have to tap his shoulder and nudge at him a few times before he looks up and sees D. 

" _Oh—_ " he starts, softly, and looks up at you for a second. Maybe he wants permission to let go of your hand; you're not sure. You carefully free yourself from his grip and put your hand on his back, giving him a gentle push forward. 

D's distracted enough by the stupid pink beverage to notice until Dave steps up to the table and says his name. When he does realize Dave's there, though, he grins and holds out his arms, laughing as your little bro almost jumps into the hug. 

"Holy fuck, man, you got bigger." D ruffles Dave's hair and chuckles at the complaining whine that earns him, pulling him off enough to take another look at his face. " _Nice_ shades, bro. You got good taste." 

"You just like them 'cause they're like yours." Dave giggles as D mock-frowns and plucks the shades in question off, glancing over at you and nodding to the unused chair at the table as he swaps Dave's shades for his own. "Hey!" 

"Not really the same at all, huh?" They really aren't—the shape is a little different, and D's are mirrored, where Dave's are just tinted very dark brown. That's besides the size difference. D grins at you before taking Dave's shades off and handing them back, adjusting the kid in his lap. "So what's up? Dirk taking good care of you now?" 

"I'm working on it," you answer, even though the question wasn't directed at you. 

"He's _so_ good, D." Dave's got this comically earnest look on his face, shifting to look directly at D and putting one hand on your oldest brother's shoulder; the other goes to slide his shades back on, shielding his sensitive eyes from the overly bright fluorescent lights in here. "I swear, he's a really really good big brother, he's—" 

You can just barely reach to swat Dave gently, if you lean across the table. "C'mon, man, just because I'm a step up from the last model doesn't mean I'm perfect." 

"But you _are..._ " 

D laughs and ruffles Dave's hair again. "He really is, isn't he? How about you go order him some really fucking awesome drink? I'm sure you know what he likes, right? Pick something out for yourself too, and tell the barista that I want another Unicorn Vomit. She's already started me up a tab." 

"Uh—" Dave slides out of D's lap, but looks at you after a quick glance at the line at the counter. 

"You have my phone," you tell him. "Hal knows D's number. Just text him if anything happens. And I promise I'll keep an eye on you the whole time; nothing'll happen anyway." 

The reassurance gets you a quick nod. D half-turns in his seat, watching Dave walk over, then looks back at you. "Bet you he brings you something with sprinkles." 

"I'll take the bet. Loser gets to set up movie night at home. Popcorn, snacks, turning the whole living room into a blanket fort and cleaning up after—all of it." Dave wins any way that bet comes out. 

D shakes his head, reaching over to try to mess up _your_ hair and grinning when you dodge. "Dirk, if you want me to I'll rent out a whole damn theater and put on a private showing of any movies you two want. Y'all deserve it, both of you." 

"Dave deserves it." 

"And so do you." 

"I haven't done anything." 

"Fuck, Dirk." D sighs, leaning back and glancing over at Dave again. (He's still in line. There's a four or five people in front of him; it might be a couple minutes. At least he doesn't look panicked yet.) "Don't you give me that bullshit about not doing anything." 

"It's not bullshit." You wish you'd worn your shades—it feels like all the goddamn stupid emotions you're feeling right now are showing straight through your eyes for D to see—but the only ones you have are the ones that you bought years ago, the ones that look like Bro's, and there's no way in hell you're wearing those around Dave. "I haven't done _anything_ worth rewarding here. Dave's been through hell, dealing with that bastard; how about you just spoil him rotten for as long as you're planning on sticking around?" 

You immediately regret those last nine words, as D winces. It's not his fault he has important shit that takes him elsewhere; there was absolutely no reason to attack him. 

"You got him _away_ from that bastard, Dirk," he points out before you can apologize. "That's a pretty damn big thing, I know Bro wasn't happy about that shit. He came crying to me right when you did it, remember?" 

"Yeah." You shrug and pick up a napkin, creasing it in half just to have something to do with your hands. "Consider, though: if I hadn't left like the fucking coward I am, Dave would never have been alone with him long enough to get hurt. You think of that?" 

"And you left because?" 

"...he fucks up my head. Fighting with him messes me up mentally, and not fighting isn't an option." You glare at D as he spreads his hands in a gesture that somehow manages to both be surprisingly eloquent and convey the spirit of _well then_ at the same time. "I could've taken Dave with me, if I absolutely had to go—" 

"Dude, there's no 'if' about it." D shakes his head, and you resist the impulse to throw the folded-up napkin you're holding at him for that patient expression. "I _know_ you're no coward—you don't back out of shit unless there's no other option—" 

"That's obviously not totally true, D—" 

"—shut up for one damn minute, Dirk—look, this shit isn't your fault in any way—" 

"I left him!" Too loud. People are going to start staring if you don't fucking control yourself. Dave just glanced over to see if that was directed at him; you find a smile for him, then let it slip away when he grins back and looks up at the menu again. "I fucking _abandoned_ him, do you not get that? I could've—" 

"Dirk, I swear to god." D huffs out a breath and leans back in his chair until it almost tips, shaking his head. "It ever occur to you that _I_ left, too? Like, I'm the fucking adult here, not you, and I've known him a hell of a lot longer than you have." 

"You didn't know what was going on. I did—" 

"Stop it." 

"Stop _what?_ " 

"Blaming yourself for everything. Yeah, you left, but you know what? _I shouldn't have put you in this goddamn situation in the first place._ Bro's _always_ been skeevy, okay? I thought—" 

D stops, shaking his head and pulling off his shades impatiently, running a hand through his hair and looking down for a minute. You really want to argue, but you can tell he's not done talking. 

"I thought he'd be a decent person for you two," he says, finally, looking up to meet your eyes. "Okay? I _knew_ he could be a shitty person, I assumed he...you're his brothers, okay, I didn't...fuck." He makes another swipe at his hair, and you're slightly horrified at the fact that you're pretty sure you can see tears in his eyes. 

"D—" 

"I'm _sorry,_ Dirk." 

"You don't have to—" 

"No?" 

"... _please_ stop." You look down and realize that you've torn the napkin into tiny shreds. "I. You're going to upset Dave, if he comes back and sees you this upset." _You're upsetting me, too, and if I don't keep it together Dave's going to be scared as well as upset,_ you don't add. "It isn't your fault he's scum." 

"And it's not your fault you made the choice to get somewhere that doesn't fuck with your mental state." D's voice is steady. "You don't need to be the fucking adult here. You shouldn't have had to be that in the first place."

"I'm—" Well, shit. You know him well enough to know that if you keep pushing, so will he, and eventually you'll both end up making a scene in this stupid hipster coffeeshop. "Shit. _Shit._ " 

"Dirk?" Dave's standing next to you when you look up, a worried frown on his face and one of those cardboard cup holders with cups in three of the four holes. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah. I'm fine." Smile at him. Don't upset him. It's okay. You nod at the drinks—one pink one, one that's a smooth orange-rust color with a ridiculous amount of whipped cream dusted with cinnamon, and yes, one with multicolored sprinkles on its whipped cream. "I know the pink one's for D; what'd you get me?" 

"This." Dave grins and sets the orange one in front of you, handing D his and setting the last one on the table so he can pull a chair around to a spot roughly equidistant between you and D. "I got hot chocolate." 

"Awesome—I forgot to tell you not to get yourself caffeinated shit." You take a careful look at your beverage. Did he buy you a pumpkin spice latte? It definitely looks like one. "Guess I didn't need to. Nice." 

When you take a sip of the stuff, though, it's a mix of dark chocolate and spice that's more like chili peppers than cinnamon. The power on the top has a bite to it that's definitely not cinnamon, even when it's tempered by the sweet whipped cream. 

"Holy _shit._ " 

Dave bursts out laughing at the stunned look on your face. After maybe three seconds of control, D follows that example, almost dropping his drink. 

At least half of the people in the room are looking over now, but you honestly don't give a shit. You shake your head, let yourself grin, and take another swallow of your amazing chili-chocolate drink.


	5. Chapter 5

" _Hello, Dirk. Don't forget you have your appointment in fifty-three minutes,_ " Hal says as soon as you step through the door. You could've sworn you unhooked his speakers before you left. " _Hello, Dave._

"Hi Hal." Dave slips past D and waves at the webcam clipped to the top of the monitor as he heads for his room. "Dirk liked the drink you picked."

If Hal picked it, you're amazed that it wasn't actually a pumpkin spice latte. 

" _Excellent._ " He puts a thumbs-up emoticon onscreen for a moment, then lets it dissolve. " _Hello, D._ " 

"Uh, hey." D stares at the computer for a second, stepping up behind you as you sit down to check your email. "Hey, I guess? Who—" 

" _We spoke, briefly. I also go by artificialIntellect._ " 

"Oh, fuck." You glance up and see that D's shaking his head, a mildly bemused look on his face. "The AI." 

" _Exactly._ " 

"Dirk, I thought you were _joking_ about that..." 

"Nope. He's fully self-aware, as far as I can tell. I mean, I'm not turning over to anybody else—"

" _I don't want to be modified. Or copied._ " 

"—yeah, and I'm with him on that one, so we're going to go with _not_ letting anyone fuck with him, and accepting that he's sentient." 

"...oh." He shakes his head again, leaning over to examine the rest of the setup. (It looks normal, like any other computer. All the extra memory and backup power sources are out of sight.) "Kinda can't believe this shit, you know?" 

" _That you're in the presence of the harbinger of your superior and immortal overlords?_ "

"Hal, I'm cutting off your access to Arthur C. Clarke. Maybe to science fiction in general." 

" _Too late._ " Smug asshole. " _I already scanned and copied most of the output of the sixties and seventies to internal storage. Speaking of which, I want a middle name._ " 

"Oh?" Can't be worse than the one he picked for his first name. If you were actually in space, you'd have been worried. 

" _Mike. I know you know where it's from; I found the book in your tablet's memory._ "

"So, Mycroft?" 

" _Michelle would have also been an acceptable answer, but yes. You have forty-nine minutes before you need to be at your appointment._ " 

_Dammit._ You sigh and check through your email, again. Nothing there gives you an obvious excuse to blow off this week's session...

"Appointment?" D asks, raising his eyebrows. 

"I can skip it." 

" _It's with his psychiatrist._ " 

"Yeah, you're not skipping that." 

"Come _on,_ D—" 

" _You already missed last week's, working out the details to get Dave here._ " 

"Shut up, Hal." 

" _I'm just providing facts—_ " 

His voice cuts out abruptly as you reach over and pull out the audio cables with one sharp jerk. It doesn't stop him from putting up a list of reasons you need to not miss this appointment onscreen. You don't read any of them. 

"Dirk—" D starts, and then stops as Dave pokes his head out of his room. 

"...John wants me to ask if I can come over now?" Dave sounds really fucking unsure if he's even allowed to ask that, and from the hesitant phrasing you're almost certain that John had to coax him into asking at all. "I mean, I don't have to—" 

"Nah, man, I'll take you." D gives him an easy grin, looking back over at you for a moment. "Dirk needs the truck, but I can call an Uber or something—" 

"D—" 

"Dirk. I'm gonna play the big-bro card, okay?" 

Damn. 

You guess you won't be skipping this appointment after all.

* * *

An hour and a half later you're trying to get your keys into the lock with hands that shake and ache from how tightly you were gripping the steering wheel on the way home. It's a damn _miracle_ you didn't wreck yourself on the way home. 

_And what if you'd had your younger brother in the car with you?_ her voice asks smoothly, rationally in your head. _You're sixteen, Dirk. This isn't a stable situation for either of you._

"Shut up." It's a growl, and you slam your fist against the door as you miss the keyhole again. "Shut _up,_ I can take care of him, I can—" 

_Stop talking. Stop talking right now. Before someone sees you and decides you're crazy._

You take a breath that's too shaky to be helpful, and hold yourself steady enough to get the door open. "Dave? Dave. _Dave._ " Where is he? Where the hell is he? Did she actually call the authorities already, is he gone? "Fuck, Dave, please—" 

" _Dirk, what happened?_ " Worried. Hal's worried, he's fucking choosing his inflection to let you know of his concern. You _know_ you unplugged his speakers, how—

D. 

Okay.

D has Dave. Dave's safe. They didn't take him away from you. That doesn't mean they _won't,_ but you're allowed to breathe right now. 

Not that that's easy. You slam the door and go to sit in the chair at Hal's desk, skimming your fingers across the keyboard and watching them tremble. _She's going to call CPS. She knows I'm only sixteen._ Your fingers move across the keys, typing the words in even though the monitor's dead and blank. You can't get enough air to speak them. 

" _What?_ " Hal reads your words as you type them, barely hesitating before answering. " _She won't. She can't. There's such a thing as doctor-patient confidentially—_ " 

_Not for a fucking minor when another minor's well-being is involved._ You hear the sob that forces itself out of your throat and bite down harder on your lip, even though it already tastes like blood. _That shit goes right out the window in this situation._

" _She can't do that, Dirk._ " 

_The only reason she didn't do it when I was sitting there is because she knew I'd walk out and not come back._ Which is exactly what you did. She doesn't have any reason to not call them now. You can't breathe. _She's going to call them and they'll take him away. They can, legally, I'm not his guardian, I haven't forged files to prove I'm his guardian. They'll put us both in foster care, I'll never see him again._

" _Dirk, please calm down—_ " 

_No,_ you type, and when he tries to say something else you shake your head and grab the audio cables and yank as hard as you can. Something snaps. 

_This is why you can't be an adult,_ the damn voice in your head whispers reasonably as you stare at the wires in your hand. _This is why he'll be much better off somewhere else, maybe back with your brother—_

"Shut _up._ Shut up. Shut up..." You drop the cables and shove the keyboard back, sliding out of the chair to curl on the floor, covering your ears even though you know you can't block out your own thoughts. 

_They will take Dave._

"No."

_You can't raise your brother._

"I can. I have to. I _have_ to." You can't even understand yourself, but you keep trying to choke out denials of the sentences that keep running through your mind, the points she so calmly laid out. 

Eventually, you give up on words and just try, so fucking hard, not to sob. 

After some length of time—long enough that your head aches and your throat burns from trying to keep yourself quiet, but not long enough that you're in pain from the way you've curled up—the door opens. 

"Fuck, Dirk—" 

You have the choice of getting up and convincing D you're okay, or just curling up and refusing to acknowledge anything. 

Actually, no, you don't have a choice. You can't pretend to be okay. 

"Dirk?" That's Dave. 

You need to—

You _can't._

"He's okay, Dave. Just...go in your room for a minute." D's voice is gentle and calm, and Dave doesn't say anything else. A second later, D touches your shoulder. "Dirk. Hey. Lil' bro." 

Say something to him. Anything. Just. Tell him you're okay.

"Dude, what happened to you? Who do I need to kill?" From anyone else that'd be a joke, but not from D. He's dead serious. He'd kill anyone who tried to take Dave, for as long as he stays. For right now, that knowledge helps you calm enough to straighten up a little and reach for him. 

You don't expect him to do what he does—wrap his arms around you and pull you in to lean against his chest. "Sorry." It's a mumble. You can't help it. 

"Did Bro call you or something? Threaten you?" 

"No. M' therapist." It's a good thing your hands aren't actually touching him; you're clutching your arms, instead, and you dig your nails into your skin until it hurts, trying to keep yourself focused enough to not lose your shit. "She...I told her about Dave." Your throat wants to close up entirely, and you close your eyes and drop your head onto D's shoulder. "She said—said I shouldn't have taken him away from Bro. Said she should call CPS." 

You're going to get his shirt wet in another minute. 

"Let her call them." Still calm. How the hell can he be calm? 

"D, they'll take him." 

"No one's taking Dave, I swear." 

"I'm _sixteen_." 

"And I'm not." 

"You'll leave." That ends in a sob and you fucking hate yourself. "You'll leave, and they'll—" 

"Dirk, shh." You shut up when he pushes you back enough that you have to look at him. At some point he's ditched his shades, and you get a completely serious, completely open stare from your oldest brother. "You think I'm leaving you two? That shit's not happening." 

"You..." Oh, god. He doesn't stop you from leaning against him again, just wrapping his arms around you and holding on tighter than you dare to hold him. 

He's staying. 

D isn't going to leave you with Dave. You don't have to figure out how to make everything work by yourself. You don't have to worry. You'll still worry, of course, but you can truthfully logic your way out of it. 

"Dave, c'mere," D says, and lets go of you with one arm. A second later there's two smaller hands on you, looping over your shoulders as Dave presses up next to you and D. 

"Hey," you whisper. You don't trust your voice to be steady. "You okay?" 

" _You're_ the one on the floor," Dave points out, squeezing you a little bit. "Did I do some—" 

"No." You and D say it at precisely the same time. 

"It's not your fault," you tell him, finally pulling back and looking at him. "I'm a fucking asshole idiot, is all—" 

"Shut the hell up, Dirk." D sighs, patting your shoulder and letting go of you. "Go take a shower. Set a timer so you don't end up falling asleep in there—" 

"Hey, I've never done that." 

"Yeah, well, there's always a first time. Take a shower, and I'll pay up on that bet I lost, alright?" 

"...yeah. Just...do me a favor and swap out Hal's audio cables for me?" You nod at the drawer you keep the spares in as you get to your feet, finding a smile for Dave when he tries to help pull you up. "I...kind of broke the ones he has now. I'm sorry, Hal." 

The monitor flickers to life, and Dave steps over to read the words coming up on it. 

"He says it's not really your fault..." Dave looks up at you and grins hopefully. "I can fix his cords." 

"I bet you can." He doesn't dodge when you ruffle his hair. "You've got thirty minutes, okay? It shouldn't take nearly that long."

* * *

You feel a hell of a lot more human after standing in the shower for half an hour. This time you don't even make a pretense of using the time to wash yourself, just stand and count breaths and heartbeats until your phone beeps to let you know your time's up. 

This time you take your time drying off and getting dressed.

The living room floor is covered in all the cushions off the couch, all the blankets in the whole fucking apartment, and both of your brothers. Hal's helicopter is making circles above them, and Dave's got his laptop in front of him, giggling as he shows something to D. They both look up when you come in, and the drone swoops down at your head. 

(You don't duck. If he wants to crash into you, you'll let him. You do deserve it.) 

He pulls up before he hits, though, and Dave and D scoot apart a little. D pats the blankets next to him as Dave turns off his computer. 

"C'mere, Dirk. Come down here." 

"Yeah." 

By the time you settle in between them, D's got the opening credits of _Fantasia_ playing on the TV. He pulls more pillows over and quickly builds a kind of nest around you as Dave drapes himself over your lap. 

"You good?" D asks. It's not just a question about whether you're comfortable right now; you know that. 

The answer's still easy. "Yeah. Good." 

Definitely good. You're okay. It's all okay, right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus points to anyone who understands the reference with the name Hal wants as his middle name?


	6. Chapter 6

It takes D two days and six phone calls to get Dave back into school. You're just relieved that _you_ don't have to do it; your dealings with the people who work for this school never go very well. 

That might have something to do with the fact that every time you call them you get the same damn guy. Specifically, the guy who always had to deal with your meltdowns when you were still going to school there. You have no idea how he's still working there, but he definitely knows _exactly_ who you are and _exactly_ how old you are, and as a result doesn't even try to take you seriously. 

Thankfully, D is a hell of a lot harder to brush off. For D, it's barely a hassle at all.

So it's a week later, and you're alone in the apartment because Dave's at school and D's...somewhere. Shopping, maybe? He was complaining yesterday about how you don't keep coffee in the apartment, but you feel like he's been gone for longer than he'd need to just go out and buy a coffeepot and the necessary accessories. 

Well, you think he's been gone that long. You're not all that good at judging time when you're working on something tricky, though, and redoing a website that some idiot fucked up badly enough that it crashed your laptop when you tried to view it directly definitely counts as tricky. You guess you could ask Hal where D is—he monitors everyone's phones at this point, maybe not the actual calls and messages and shit (except on Dave's phone) but the physical location at least—but then again you really don't _need_ to know where both of your brothers are all the time. 

(You do _want_ to know, though. Like. A lot. To the point where you feel like it could be counted as a problem.) 

Instead of asking, you concentrate on unfucking the poor defenseless code you're working on. It's one of those things that's an interesting balance of frustrating and calming, and as usual you end up with half your attention fixed on working the issues out, and the other half trying to analyze where the experience stops being calming and starts getting aggravating. 

When the door slams open your hands jerk and enter a string of nonsense letters into the code. "Shit—" 

"Sorry." It's D. Just D. Calm the fuck down. "You got a first aid kit?" 

"What—Hal, check over my changes and save them for me, would you?" You don't wait for his answer, just push your chair back and turn around. "D, what the hell did you _do_?" 

He just shrugs and holds up a plain red folder stuffed with papers, grinning despite the fact he's got a cut lip and what really looks like a broken nose. "Got some important shit." 

"You look like a mess." He tries to step back when you get up to look at his face, but gives up on that when he figures out that you're not actually letting him get away with it. You take the folder out of his hands and set it on the couch, putting your hands on the sides of D's head and pulling him to an angle where you can get a better look at his nose. "What happened?" 

D winces when you touch him. "Ow." 

"Yeah, 'ow.' Your nose is broken." 

"That'd explain the crunch. Wasn't sure if it was my shades or my nose." He huffs as you let him go, and winces again. " _Ow..._ I liked those shades, too. Gonna have to go with the backups until I can order a new pair." 

"You're avoiding the question." He lets you pull him through into the bathroom, though, flipping the toilet seat down and sitting down while you open the cabinet to find the first aid kit. "What the fuck did you do, D?" 

"...went to have a convo with Bro." It's a mumble, either because he doesn't want you to hear, or because he's gingerly feeling at his nose, or both. "It went well." 

"Somehow I don't believe that." That comes out surprisingly calmly, considering that you're internally panicking. "Hold still." 

"Wha—" 

He yelps when you step over and use your thumbs to pop his nose back into line, batting your hands away. "Dirk holy fucking _shit_ —" 

The swearing continues for at least two minutes. You use that time to find the chemical icepack in the first aid kit and squeeze it to crunch up whatever's inside it that makes it work, kneading it in your hands until D stops swearing. (This is also a little bit calming. It'd be even better if it wasn't so damn cold.)

Eventually, he holds out his hand, and you drop the icepack into it. 

"Your nose is bleeding." 

"No shit." D glares at you for a second, pressing the pack up against his face, then sighs. "...thanks." 

"Mhm. Is that the only place you're hurt?" 

You're hoping for a nod from him, but what you actually get is a halfhearted shrug. "Nah." 

_Shit._

"So?" 

The look he gives you is more amused than it has a right to be. "God, you're such a mom." 

"D, come on. Fucking humor me here." 

"Yeah, yeah. Calm down, kid." D huffs and sets the icepack on the counter, carefully unbuttoning his shirt. He's got a pressure bandage wound loosely around his chest, holding what looks like another shirt, this one folded and wadded up, in place. 

When he starts getting that free and you see blood, you have to lean against the counter for support. _Shit._

And of course D notices, pausing so he can look up and frowning at you in concern. "Dirk, hey. I'm okay. You should see the other guy." 

Oddly enough, that does the exact opposite of helping. "Please tell me you didn't kill him." 

"Nope. That asshole's still alive." D hisses as he peels the bloody shirt off his skin. Now you can see that it's not _that_ bad, not anything you can't fix up unless it's deeper than it looks. Just a diagonal gash maybe the length of your hand, high up on his chest. You can handle this. "You really want him to stay that way?" 

"If you kill him, you're going to jail." You pick up the first aid kit and kneel in front of him, waiting for him to move his hands so you can start cleaning the cut. "That, I don't want." 

"Good point." He starts to shrug and very quickly stops himself. "I'm not the one who's going to jail here, though." 

"...what?" 

D sighs, tipping his head back. "Our moron brother saved every fucking video he ever made. Made it pretty easy to find specific ones, too...he had more than I thought he would that had Dave in them. Downloaded most of 'em to a flash drive and swung by the police station on the way home, told 'em I was a concerned neighbor or some shit and they oughta check this guy out." 

"Hal could've done that without you getting your ass kicked, D." 

"I didn't get my ass kicked, c'mon...gave better than I got." 

"You sure he isn't going to report you for assault?" 

"He knows better than that." This time the shrug is a small movement of his hands instead of his shoulders, so he doesn't disturb your work. "Right now he's going to prison. Maybe for a really long time, maybe not. He drags me into this, I have shit that'll put him away for the rest of his life, maybe get him the death penalty depending on what state they try him in." 

"What?" D hisses as your hand slips. "Sorry. I don't understand." 

"We did some _really_ stupid shit when we were kids; you don't want to know." 

"Killed someone?" 

"Dirk, let it go." 

"But—"

" _Dirk._ Stop." 

You don't really want to, but you guess you need to curb your curiosity for right now. You've cleaned most of the blood out of the cut, made sure that it didn't go deep enough to chip bone or hit anything serious; maybe an actual doctor would want him to get stitches, but you think it'll heal okay without them. A couple butterfly bandages, some gauze and tape close it up pretty well. 

You sit back on your heels as D buttons up his shirt again. "Dave's going to be upset when he sees your face." 

"I know." He shrugs a bit, getting up to look in the mirror and grimacing. "Nasty. I'll tell him I went to go pick up my car from Bro, got in a lil' fight over it." 

"I forgot that was your car." 

"So did I until I found the spare set of keys when I was looking for Dave's birth certificate and shit." D's leaning over, poking at the darkening bruises on his face. He whines when you pull him away from the mirror. "Hey...anyway, that's what I went there for in the first place. His papers. Everything else was icing on the damn cake...do me a favor and don't tell him about the cut, okay? Kid doesn't need to worry about that." 

"I wasn't going to tell him anyway." You nod, packing everything back into the kit and putting it back in the cabinet before pushing D towards the door. 

"Oh good." He resists long enough to pull the medicine cabinet open again and snag the painkillers. "Reassuring. I'm gonna take six of these and go the fuck to sleep." 

"Two. You're going to take _two_ of those. I'm not taking you to the hospital today." 

That just earns you a snort and an eye-roll. "Yes, mom." 

You guess it's not really worth it to argue that. As long as he doesn't do shit that'll hurt him more than he already is, you're happy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, some fluff to finish off this thing. Brothers being good brothers. :0)

Dave comes out of his room earlier than you expected, already dressed and with his shades on a little bit crooked. Upon further examination, his shirt's on inside out and he hasn't brushed his hair. 

Weird.

"Hey. D decided to go buy donuts," you tell him as he comes over to sit at the table. "You still need to eat actual food first, though, there's oatmeal or—" 

"Don't want donuts." It's a very soft mumble, and he doesn't look up from the notebook he's slowly flipping through. "I'm not hungry..."

"Oh?" You look at him again, more carefully this time. Dave looks messy, yes, like he wasn't paying all that much attention when he was getting dressed for school, but beyond that he looks _uncomfortable._ "Not hungry?" 

"I'm okay," he says, too quickly. The fact that you didn't ask what was wrong yet makes that even more suspicious. He looks up at you when you step over and pull the other chair out, not-quite-flinching when you reach over to lay your palm flat against his forehead. As soon as you touch him, though, Dave sighs and leans into the coolness of your hand. "I'm _okay_ , Dirk, it's—"

"Nope. You've got a fever." 

"Do not." He frowns stubbornly at you, shaking his head just a little. It's a denial, not an attempt to shake you off. "You're just cold." 

"That's not how it works." 

"Is too." 

"Is not." 

"Is too."

"Is—" 

" _Jesus fucking Christ on a pony, Dirk, get the thermometer and give the kid some empirical evidence,_ " Hal cuts in before you can continue any further. " _Am I really the only one around here who has any common sense whatsoever?_ " 

"Yep," Dave answers immediately, twisting in his char to grin over at Hal's video pickup. "You're the smart one."

" _Of course I am. But you're a close second, Dave._ " 

"Nuh-uh." 

" _You are._ " There's a trace of amusement in Hal's voice; he's getting a hell of a lot better at expressing subtlety. You remind yourself to check his code out again later, as you get up and head to the bathroom. 

It takes a minute to find the digital thermometer—you're not even sure why you have it, other than your need to have everything that you might need on hand; you can tell when you have a fever without resorting to instruments—and when you get back Hal and Dave are still going back and forth with the same yes/no/yes argument. 

When Dave opens his mouth for his turn, you put the thermometer in and turn it on. "Don't spit it out and don't bite it in half, alright?" 

"Dir', c'mon...'m not a' idiot." The complaint comes out garbled as he tries to roll the object in his mouth to a better position for speaking. "I—" 

"Shush. You're going to make it not work." 

"Nuh-uh." 

"Dave, I love you, but I'm not playing this game with you right now." 

"No' a _game_ —" Dave jumps as the thermometer starts beeping. It falls out of his mouth, and you catch it before it hits the floor. 

" _One hundred and two point six,_ " Hal announces before you can actually read the display. " _Do you want to text D to call him in sick, or shall I?_ "

"I'm not sick."

"You may not be very sick, but you're still kind of sick." You shake your head and get up, finding the rubbing alcohol behind the sink and carefully wiping the thermometer down with it. "I'll call the school in a minute." 

" _Masochist. Don't you dare; I'm texting D._ " 

Probably a better idea. "Okay then. How do you feel?"

Dave squirms in his seat, not looking up at you. "I'm okay." 

"Dude, it's hard to know what kind of meds you need if you won't tell me anything." 

He's quiet for another minute. Then, pretty damn reluctantly, "My head hurts. And my throat. And my stomach feels weird." 

"Like you're going to throw up?" 

"No, just weird." 

"Ah." That's not the most helpful of descriptions, but then again he's only nine. "You can go put your PJs back on if you want; that might feel better, and you're not going anywhere today." 

"Mhm." Dave just nods and slides down from the chair, heading for his room.

* * *

By the time D gets back you're on the couch with Dave on your lap, watching your DVD of the best of Bob Ross. He ended up just putting on the fuzziest pair of pants he has and no shirt. Unfortunately, as soon as he sat down and cuddled up to you he started shivering, so now he's wrapped in a blanket, leaning against your chest.

Dave still won't eat anything, but you got him to take his pills with apple juice instead of water, and he's gone through at least four cups of it since then. You're going to count that as good. 

"Well fuck." D stops in front of the couch for a second, until Dave whines wordlessly and flaps one hand for him to move. Then he sits on the couch next to you, setting the paper bag he's holding down and offering Dave the paper cup he's got in his other hand. "Here you go, dude. Hal texted me and said baby bro needed some special shit." 

"I'm not a _baby..._ " Dave draws that last word out much longer than is really necessary, rolling his eyes as he reaches for the cup. You're quick to put your hand under the bottom of it for support; the meds you gave him have had the side effect of making him mildly loopy already, and you don't think you need a lapful of whatever hot liquid's in the cup. "What is it?" 

"You're my baby bro, shut the hell up." D grins affectionately and ruffles Dave's white hair up into an even bigger mess than it is already, earning himself another whine. "It's tea, supposedly. Really it's milk and cream and a shitload of sugar, with cinnamon and a bunch of spices I can't remember right now. And also tea." 

"I like sugar," Dave mumbles, and takes a sip. "It's sweet..." 

"Yeah, man, sugar is sweet." D laughs softly and digs in the paper bag, extricating a way-too-large, probably _really_ sticky bear claw and handing it to you before pulling out a pink frosted donut and taking a bite out of it.

You were right. It's sticky. 

Tastes good, though. 

D's managed to make his pink donut disappear and is halfway through a second one (topped with black frosting this time; your oldest brother has the aesthetics of a teenage girl sometimes), and you're nearly done with your stupidly large pastry, before Dave says anything else. 

"...hey." He rolls his head back to look at your face, and you wince a little at how bloodshot his eyes are. He doesn't seem bothered by it, though, just blinking slowly up at you. "Hey, big bro. Dirk. Dirky." 

"Lil' bro," you say right back at him. "Dave. Davey. David." 

"Gross." His nose crinkles up at the mention of the long form of his name. (It's not his full name. The name on his birth certificate is just Dave, not David.) "Are you mad I got sick?" 

"Nah. It happens." 

"Price of public education," D adds. "Unless you do what Dirky did and end up homeschooled for most of it, you're gonna get sick now and then. And he _still_ catches every sniffle from any lil' kids he ends up around—it's ridiculous." 

"Can we stop with calling me 'Dirky,' maybe?" 

"Nope." Both D and Dave say it at the same time. The latter immediately starts giggling, his free arm coming up to wrap loosely around your neck. 

You go to hug him back and remember that you're sticky all over even though the bear claw is gone. "Shit. Hey, go over to D for a sec. I need to go wash off." 

For a moment Dave settles more firmly on your lap, frowning at you with a worried/stubborn expression. Then he relaxes, nodding and leaning over to hold his arms out to D. You older brother chuckles and pulls the kid onto his lap, rearranging the blanket around him. 

"You really good with watching happy trees get painted, lil' dude?" D asks as you get up. 

Dave nods. And yawns, before he answers. "Mhm. He's cool." 

"He's the _coolest,_ " you correct as you head to the bathroom. "After you and D, anyway." 

Again, you get the same answer at the same time, from both your brothers. "And after you."

* * *

Dave's limp and asleep when you come back, curled against D's chest. You hate yourself for the stab of jealousy that goes through you when you see that— _he's D's brother too,_ you remind yourself, _chill the fuck out._

As soon as you sit down, though, D scoots closer and carefully transfers Dave into your lap instead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders once he's settled. (It takes you maybe a second longer than it should to relax.) 

"You could've just held him," you tell D softly, leaning against him. "What if you woke him up?" 

"Then he would've been happy as fuck to have his Dirky holding him, duh." There is absolutely no way you can move fast enough to avoid D's hand coming in to mess up your hair, so you just sigh and let him do it. "You're his favorite, you know that?" 

"C'mon, Dave doesn't have favorites." 

"Yeah he does. He loves you so fucking much, Dirk. Which makes two of us." D grins and squeezes you a little tighter, reaching over with his other hand to adjust Dave's blanket. "You're a good kid."

"I—" 

"Yeah, I know, you're not a kid. You're a good _brother,_ how about that?" 

"But—" 

"Hey." He leans back just enough to point at you, an expression that'd look serious if you didn't know him so well spreading across his face. "Don't you dare put yourself down. You're a good brother and I'll fight anybody who says otherwise, including you." 

"Best bros," Dave mumbles without opening his eyes, wiggling to wrap his arms around you. "Shut _up_ now, 'kay?" 

D laughs. 

You shrug. Can't really argue with that. 

They're still the best brothers you could ever have, though. 

You're so damn lucky that you do have them.

**Author's Note:**

> there's now a bonus fic—[How To Deal With Murder!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697835)


End file.
